Psychosis
by Sammyoyo
Summary: A man is trapped inside his own head.


I don't know why I want to write this down on paper. I wanted somewhere I could collect my thoughts. These last few days have shaken me.

Perhaps it's just that I haven't been outside in too long. However, I can't shake the feeling that something is wrong. Every time I go online to IM with someone, they are offline or idle. No-one will reply to my texts. I keep on trying to convince myself that everything is fine, but the shiver down my spine says otherwise. I need to go outside.

Hesitantly, I make my way up the stairs, and towards the window in the door. The streets are still. Not a single car goes by in the whole time I watch.

As soon as I get back into the apartment, my phone rings abruptly. The number is unfamiliar. With shaking fingers, I press the "Receive call" icon on the touchscreen. A stranger's voice answers.

"Hello?" I say, holding the phone close to my ear.

"Hello?" Comes the unfamiliar voice. "Who is this please?"

"Uh…Mike" I say.

"Oh. Sorry. Wrong number". The man hangs up, and I find myself suddenly and irrationally terrified. My phone rings again. Another unrecognized number.

"Hello?"

"Mike? Is that you?"

I feel suddenly relieved

"Susan. Thank God."

"What's up, Mike? You tried to ring me, but my phone died. This is someone else's. I'm at a party on Frond Avenue. You should come along."

"Sorry, I'm a little busy right now." I say, trying to keep my voice steady, and having to refrain from jumping around out of joy. "Just had a bit of a strange experience. Haven't spoken to anyone for a few days because of this project, and I guess it freaked me out."

Susan laughs down the phone. "Ok, then. I'll leave you to your stuff. See you around, Mike."

"Yeah." I close the phone, and breathe a sigh of relief. Then I realise something; something wrong with the call I just made. She had said she had been at a party… I realised what it was with a thrill of fear. If she was at a party, then why were there no other voices?

I try and calm myself with food. The macaroni is stale and the cheese is out of date, but I know that I shouldn't go outside. I leave the pasta, and log into MSN. Only a few of my friends are online, but they are all idle. I try again and again to contact them, my messages becoming more and more desperate. I ask people if they want to come around, making up any and every reason, to no avail; no replies. I turn on Webchat, and try and contact everyone I have on the MSN address list, but still nothing. Suddenly, the _New Mail _icon pops up. I open outlook and read it.

Seen with own eyes don't trust them

What? Seen who? Seeing with my own eyes? Maybe this is a joke of some kind. Yeah, that's it. A sick, sick prank.

I'm beginning to feel shaky now. Four and a half days without any contact with another person. Suddenly, every horror movie I've ever watched comes back to me. What if everyone else has been taken? What if I'm the only one? I try and console myself, to tell myself that it's just coincidence: the strange number, the empty streets, the email.

I'm woken from my reverie by my phone buzzing; a text message. It's from Susan.

"U want 2 go 4 pizza l8r? How far ru from Pacino's?"

I pick up the phone and reply.

"8 streets, 15 langbourne like always :p what time?"

Still the phone has not rung. I check my sent messages; although I'm underground, I can still get one bar. Surely that's enough to send it?

I check the message; yes, it sent properly. Perhaps I've got the wrong number?

A memory from earlier flickers. _"Who is this?" "Uh…John" _I look suddenly back to my sent message. _15 Langbourne_. My address. I realise what I have done. Whoever-whatever- it is that has taken everyone else, it now has my name and my address. Oh my God. It knows where to find me. It knows me.

I shake my head. This is ridiculous. Everything is fine. Then why, says some darker part of my subconscious, do I feel this way?

The next day, I am woken by a banging on the door. There are voices outside; Susan's voice, and someone else. I get up, rubbing my eyes.

"Open up, Mike!" comes the voice. I remember yesterday night. Suddenly, all the fear seems irrational. I shout something vague about being out in a minute, and rush into the bathroom to try and do something about my hair. Walking back out, I survey the room to make sure that nothing has been missed in last night's cleanup. I notice something on the desk.

The webcam. Oh god. The webcam on my desk. Has it seen everything? Has it seen me writing? Has it seen my fear, and my panic? It had been watching everything! With a cry of fear and horror, I stamp on it, grinding the plastic and rubber and silicone into the floor. How do I know that it's Susan out there? I can't see her! It could be anyone! This is what the email warned me of; not to trust what I couldn't see with my own eyes…

I scream for help, and pile anything I can find up against the door. I scream in uncontrollable terror. Susan is banging on the door, and I gibber with fear. How can they be doing this? How can they simulate her so callously?

I don't know what day it is now. It could be any time between five and seven days since I've gone outside. Yesterday, I broke everything electronic; my TV, my computer, my modem, my iPod. I swing wildly between mad, uncontrollable fear, and a kind of horrified shame at myself. I try and tell myself that it's just random convergence of events; me not going outside at the right time, the phone call, my absent friends. But every time I tell myself this, I realise just how neatly it all fits together. What if this thing was out there already, rounding up everyone else? I betrayed my hiding place by calling up Susan, and now it's coming for me. It's already here. This is what the email warned of; not to trust anyone, not to believe what I couldn't see.

There is a knock on the door. More voices. Susan again, but this time there is another; a man, getting on in years. He is telling me that he's a psychologist, that I have nothing to fear, and that I'm being delusional. I'm not going to fall for it. I'm the last one, and they're not going to get me. I curl up in terror at the end of the room. How is this machine, this entity that can read all our electronic devices like we would read a letter, how is it fabricating so well the effect of a man? It doesn't seem possible. But they can't get me now. There's nothing else here that can see me. I am the only eyes. My eyes… Oh my god. My eyes. There's no difference between my eyes and a camera! They both turn light into electrical signals! What if I've been watched the whole time? It's seen everything! I am the machine… No! I have to be sure! I have to be sure!

I sit patiently in the padded room. The machine is simulating perfectly the behaviour of countless people; doctors, psychologists, Susan. It emulated perfectly her tears; it told me that she had stopped visiting, but I didn't care, because I knew the truth. The bandages now feel like a part of me; a band to wear, a symbol to identify me as a resistor. I ask for a pen and paper, and one is finally given. I know that this may be my final chance to write, as I will gradually forget the motions without my sight to correct mistakes; the one sacrifice that I have made in my struggle.

This waiting game may be one final gambit in the Machine's crusade against me. But I will not be broken.

The doctor looked down sadly at the scribbled, unintelligible handwriting of a blind man. He wanted to tell the man that he was proud at his steadfast resolve, but he knew that the man was completely delusional. Because of course, any sane man would have fallen for the deception immediately. He wanted to encourage him. He wanted to cry, or flail around, or scream, but the wire filaments and electrodes that now encased his brain and eyes told him otherwise, and steered him into the room to tell the man, for the thousandth time, that no-one was trying to deceive him.


End file.
